


Chocolate Hearts and Kisses

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [22]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dom/sub, In Public, Nanny Ashtoreth Returns, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22739458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: She lifts a hand, hooking a finger over his collar, a razor sharp nail tickling down the front of his throat, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine. “I think you know very well, don’t you, my lad?” She tilts her head, gazing at him over the rims of her glasses. “Dining out? On a night like this? In the only available restaurant in town? If that’s not worthy of punishment, nothing is.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Hunger [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1407112
Comments: 32
Kudos: 199





	Chocolate Hearts and Kisses

“Are you almost ready?” Aziraphale calls through.

He’s waiting in the living room, dressed to the nines, for their evening out. Perhaps it’s cliché, but once in a while, the humans come up with some very sweet ideas and since they’ve never done it before, they have a table booked for Valentine’s dinner.

It was his idea.

Crowley huffed and groaned about it, rolling his eyes, but once Aziraphale promised they could do something he liked afterwards, he seemed to change his mind.

The tap of heels gives the angel pause and he turns, schooling his expression as best he can, when Nanny Ashtoreth steps into the doorway. She’s… considerably dressed down compared to her usual suit. Somehow, it’s worse: a fitted black off-the-shoulder cocktail dress with a velvet black choker around her throat. Her hair is… well… for want of a better word _coiffed_. The knee-high black boots have spiked heels and cling in an absurdly erotic way to the curve of her calf. Aziraphale swallows and darts his tongue along his very dry lips.

“This is hardly _after_ , dear.”

Nanny arches an eyebrow at him. “And you think you’re in my good books, do you, Mr. Fell?”

Aziraphale tries his very best to hide his smile. He suspects he’s not entirely successful. “I don’t know, Nanny. What have I done to earn the… displeasure of your company?”

She prowls towards him with that elegant menace that makes his heart flutter. Lord, Crowley sauntering is temptation enough, but with the casual confidence and dominance he asserts as Nanny, Aziraphale feels quite weak at the knees.

She lifts a hand, hooking a finger over his collar, a razor sharp nail tickling down the front of his throat, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine. “I think you know very well, don’t you, my lad?” She tilts her head, gazing at him over the rims of her glasses. “Dining out? On a night like this? In the only available restaurant in town? If that’s not worthy of punishment, nothing is.”

“We needn’t go,” Aziraphale says, “if you’re… very cross about it.” After all, staying in with Nanny is never ever disappointing.

There’s a curl to Nanny’s lip that makes him wish he had made an effort. “Oh no, dear. We’re going.” She tugs on his collar, pulling him forward a step. “But you’re missing something.”

“Missing–” Aziraphale frowns. “I don’t follow.”

Her other hand cups between his thighs, stroking the very place that he has sorely neglected. “Open up for me, my wee lamb,” she murmurs, heat in her voice and warning and oh, how can he do anything but obey? Smooth flesh ripples, giving way to folds and warm, soft, secret places. A glimpse of Nanny’s teeth appears and she lays her hand there, the warm weight pressing through his trousers. “Very good, dear. Very obedient.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Anything for you, darling.” Her eyebrow lofts again. “Nanny,” he corrects himself, hissing and rising on his toes as she presses her palm more firmly against him.

“To the desk, my dear,” she murmurs, her lips so close to his that her breath is warm on his skin. “Trousers down, hands on the top.”

Heat warms his cheeks, but – as he always will for her – he obeys. Unbuttons his trousers with useless clumsy fingers, unbuttons his drawers, lowers them both neatly to heap around his ankles and bends, palms down on the desk.

Nanny taps closer, slowly, leisurely, taking her time. “Do you know why I’m cross with you, Mr. Fell?” she murmurs.

It takes him but a moment of thought to realise his mistake. He surprised Crowley with the arrangements. He forgot. The wrong kind of surprise. Dining out is all well and good, but dining out specifically to display themselves, showing themselves, being _seen_ on a night made for romance and tenderness and love _._ Too much without warning.

“Ah,” he says with a wince. “I ought to have asked.”

“Aye.” Nanny’s hand caresses his buttock, so gentle that the smack is all the sharper for it. Aziraphale gasps, jolting. “What have we said about _asking_ first?”

“I-I beg your pardon.” He tilts his head to look back at her. “I was presumptuous.”

One of her feet insinuates its way between his, nudging them a little further apart. “That’s right.”

“I-I thought we were still–”

The crack of her palm against his backside sends another delicious spike of heat through him and he leans forward, shuddering deliciously as she pushes his shirt tails up, over his back.

“We’ll go when you’re… fully attired.”

“I don’t– oh!” His hips jerk as she slides her hand downwards between his now-spread thighs. She knows him well enough to tease him, fingertips skimming and tantalising and – at intervals – press-rubbing in lazy circles. “Oh _Lord_ …”

“Do you think this is enough to learn your lesson?” she murmurs, dragging her fingers slowly up and down, pressing intimately close to his opening.

“No,” he admits in a gasp. This, if anything, is encouragement.

Two fingers slip into him, plunging to the knuckle as she bends over him, the fabric of her skirt grazing against his skin. “I thought as much,” she purrs close to his ear. “You’re a wee hellion, aren’t you, sweetheart? You need some…” Another thrust of her fingers and the sharp smack of her other palm makes him scrabble at the desk. “Disciplining.”

Abruptly, her hands are no longer on him, but before he can protest, something else slips inside his more-than-willing body. It’s not a toy he recognises, filling him snugly, the pressure of it delightful.

“Trousers up,” Nanny snaps crisply.

Aziraphale’s cheeks burn. “You can’t mean–”

The smack is less gentle this time.

“Trousers,” she repeats in that soft purring burr, “up. Now.”

He stoops to gather them and the toy shifts, making him groan softly. “Oh dear.”

“Mm.” Nanny smiles darkly at him as he straightens up, fumble-fingered as he tries to button himself up. She steps in close, brushing his hands aside, and does the work for him, tucking his shirt back in, her hand sliding between fabric and flesh once more to tease his now-thrumming skin. “There. All dressed up nice.”

Aziraphale’s throat constricts, his hips moving of their own accord, rubbing against her fingertips. “Ah. Ye-yes.”

Nanny hisses, withdrawing her hand. “Ah, ah, my wee lamb. None of that.” She raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to behave yourself?”

Aziraphale gathers up the fragments of his dignity for what it’s worth. “Y-yes, Nanny.” Lord, if he even shifts his weight, he can feel her toy shifting inside of him. Small enough to be worn out and about, but large enough that he’s going to be entirely aware of it all the way through dinner.

And Nanny – Crowley – is smirking, which means there is far worse in store.

He clears his throat, straightens his bowtie, and then offers her his arm, trying to ignore the insistent press within him, and the heat of his skin. “Shall we?”

She lays her hand – fingertips still shining with his wetness – on his arm. “Very well.” She shoots him a sidelong look, lips twitching. “On your best behaviour, remember.”

“Of course.”

The restaurant isn’t too far away, in one of the nearby towns, but still far enough that they had to take the car. Aziraphale sits – carefully – but it seems that her little toy is settled snugly enough that it won’t cause him any discomfort. Only he finds if he shifts his hips ever so slightly, there is a rather pleasant rub of friction inside and–

Nanny flattens the accelerator, throwing him back in his seat, her fingers curling around the steering wheel.

“Crowley!” he yelps automatically, grabbing at the door and side of the seat.

“What did I _just_ tell you?” Nanny says coolly, not even looking his way as she whips them around a corner.

“I’ll sit still!” he yelps, fingers tightening on the seat. “Please, just slow down!”

“Good.” Mercifully, she slows to a gentler speed, more suited to narrow, winding country lanes.

By the time they pull into the car park behind the restaurant – a space miraculously opening up for them – he’s detached his hands from the seat and is… adjusting to the unfamiliar pressure within him. This will be fine, he thinks as he gets out of the car. Perhaps a little distracting, but then Nanny has a knack of doing that to him regardless of the circumstances.

When she taps her way around the car, he waits and offers her his arm.

The stern line of her lips softens a little as she slips her hand around his. “We’ll have you behaving yet, won’t we?”

Every step by her side is a fresh delight and torment. The warmth of her through his sleeve and the subtle rub of the crease of his trousers against the base of the toy is distraction to say the least. He makes vague sounds of acknowledgement, stammering out a name to the young man at the door.

He had hoped they would get a private table in one of the window nooks, but instead, the boy leads them to a table in the middle of the bustling, busy restaurant.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, dear.” He glances at Crowley to apologise and oh, _Lord_ , the amused smirk on her lips says this is no accident. Her little game of reproach is only just beginning it seems. “Is this really necessary?”

“You wanted us to go _out_ , lamb,” she purrs at him.

He makes a moue at her, but manners are manners, so he draws out her chair for her to sit. Still, he can’t help leaning down as he pushes the chair back in, catching a whisper of the intoxicating perfume that wraps around her like gossamer. “I’m glad,” he murmurs for her ears only, “The world gets to see what a wonder you are.”

To his delight, the tips of her ears pink and he feels the half-hearted, but pleased glare as he circles the table to sit down opposite her. Gingerly, again, all the better to make himself carefully comfortable without a need to move.

Nanny props an elbow on the table and cups her chin. “I think you want to fluster me, Mr. Fell.”

He sits a little straighter and takes his time unfolding his napkin, spreading it across his lap. “Is it working?”

She shows a flash of incisor. “What do you think?”

Aziraphale gazed across at her, the flush of pink across her cheekbones a quite lovely contrast to the pale freckled expanse of her bare shoulders. He lets his eyes wander, drinking her in, wondering if she will let him work his way down her throat, tracking the constellations on her skin. And the more he gazes, the deeper the spread of the blush.

A sudden charge inside him makes him jump, his hand cracking against the edge of the table. “Oh!”

Nanny’s smirk returns. “It’s very rude to stare.”

Aziraphale’s mouth is suddenly very dry again. Oh. Oh _Lord_. Not simply a weighty distraction. That was the source of the surge. Something else inside it. Something _she_ very clearly controls. He can feel the heat crawling up his face at the very thought. “Oh, you _didn’t_ …”

Her eyebrow arches and a low thrum ripples between his legs. He hastily clamps his thighs together, biting down on his lower lip.

She holds up her phone, giving it a playful wave. “There’s an app for that.”

“A-a-a what?”

She laughs, then, lounging back in her chair like a Goddess. “Control, my wee lamb,” she coos. “To make sure you know where you…” Her lips twitch. “Stand.”

His cheeks must be flaming, but there’s also a throb between his thighs, a greedy, urgent hungry sensation that really oughtn’t be enjoyed in a public place and yet…

And yet, he remembers the Ritz. He remembers the garden. He remembers how tantalising and wicked it feels.

If he behaves himself, nothing will come of it, but if he misbehaves…

One wonders how far Nanny will go to discipline him in such a public forum.

“Do you really plan on testing me, _dear_?”

“I didn’t say–” Aziraphale sputters.

“You didn’t _have_ to,” Nanny says and she – no, Crowley laughs. “It’s written all over your face.”

Aziraphale pulls his seat in a little closer to the table, then folds his hands on the table top, the embodiment of decorum, as if the angle of his body on the seat isn’t pressing her toy firmly, snugly, against him. “Very well, Miss Ashtoreth,” he says, meeting her eyes through the smoky glasses. “What are the… rules of engagement?”

She leans forward, hand still cupping her chin. “The better you behave, the better the reward,” she murmurs. “If you… test me, if you try my patience, I _will_ make you rue the day.”

Aziraphale dabs his lower lip with his tongue. “Will you… test me?”

Her thumb skims the screen of her phone and the deep-rooted hum makes him press his eyes closed, a delicious tremor ricocheting through him. “Of course, dear,” she murmurs. “We can’t tell how well you’ll behave if there’s no pressure, can we?” She uncurls a finger, hooking the scarlet nail on her lip. “Table manners are a must. Polite to the staff. No impatience. No fussing. No spillages.”

All straightforward things he always manages. Only at her mercy now.

“Is that,” she murmurs, teeth gleaming white, “acceptable?”

He nods with a shaky smile as she thumbs her phone again. A gentle setting, at least. Small mercies, but the steady purr of it against him, right down to his seat, is making his pulse flutter.

She taps her thumb a little harder and it’s like an electric charge right through him. “Use your words, dear.”

“Y-yes, Nanny,” he gulps, squeezing his hands together.

Her smile is wicked and she lays the phone down on the table. Not off, though. The gentle pulsing thrum is still rippling through him and he takes a deeper breath. He has dealt with far greater distractions than this before. He’ll be _fine_.

“And if,” she murmurs, as if he isn’t having enough trouble keeping his thoughts in line, “you would like me to stop, simply ask for an apple.”

Colour flames up his cheeks, recalling another place, another time, a garden in summer, a picnic, cords on his wrists. “An apple,” he echoes. Of course that would be her word of choice, to tease him even more mercilessly.

She grins, scarlet and white. “Good.”

The waiter comes and is polite but oh so apologetic – bit of a wait, larger number of guests than usual, kitchen staff shortage, a drink while they wait, maybe a bottle as recompense – and Aziraphale shoots a pointed look across the table at Nanny Astoreth.

She smiles coquettishly, curling a loose lock of hair around her finger as if she couldn’t _possibly_ have anything to do with prolonging his torment.

“A staff shortage,” he murmurs when the waiter bustles off with their order. “ _Really_?”

“You know how fragile humans are, dear,” she says in all innocence, tapping her fingertips lightly on the table, close to, but not quite touching the phone. “Are you… accusing me of something? That’s not very polite, is it?”

“Suspecting,” Aziraphale hastily says. “Not accusing.”

Scarlet lips twitch. “Very well.”

Still, the waiter brings them some wine and it’s fine. It is. He certainly doesn’t want to return it or exchange it for a white. He definitely doesn’t raise his hand only to hiss and groan as a deeper, far more intensive pulse makes him clamp his thighs together.

Nanny tuts, her own glass raised to the light, as if examining it for colour and body, her other hand casually resting on her phone. “What did we say about fussing?”

“I only–” He has to grab the edge of the table, his hips spasming at a far more intensive surge. “Oh Lord…”

“What,” Nanny repeats mildly, turning her attention from the wine to him, “did we say about fussing?”

He makes himself sit up, though his fingers are biting into the table top through the cloth. The pulsing throb is delicious and he’s half-tempted to slip one hand below the table to encourage it along, but that… would be impolite, wouldn’t it? “I beg your pardon, Nanny.”

Her smile is worth it, the approval sending a different kind of heat through him. “Good,” she murmurs and the spike of the pulses returns to the gentler – but no less intensive – thrum.

He sits still – or as still as he can – and he behaves himself quite well. The food is… fine. A little cooler than he would like and he knows she can tell – did his face give him away again? – he knows because she traces a pattern on her phone that makes him quiver and the fork buckles into a twisted rod in his hand.

“Oh dear,” Nanny says, though he can _tell_ she’s trying very hard not to grin.

He’s breathing hard through his teeth and the… the damned thing is pulsing so hard he’s amazed no one can hear the hum of it through the legs of his chair. “May I ask for another fork, please?” He swallows hard, unfurling his fingers with effort. The ruined twist of metal plinks onto the table. “I would hate to–to–” Oh sweet Christ. His hips shiver with the effort of sitting still. He’s– his– if she doesn’t–

“You would hate to…?” she prompts and Lord, if he– if she–

“I-I-I can hardly enjoy the food without a f-f–” He clutches the edge of the table again, the wood creaking alarming. “A _fork_.”

The heart-thumping pulses drop away to the steady thrum and he can breathe again, though his world is peculiarly narrowed and swaying and oh, she’s _very_ good.

“Very well,” she murmurs and raises a hand. Asks for him. Which is good. Because his words were scattering and they’re still not back and he was so close to coming apart and now, now, he riding gently on the crest of a wave, not quite there, but not quite falling back yet. When the new fork is delivered, she smiles across at him. “You’re doing very well.”

He can’t help smiling back. “Well enough?” he asks, his voice strangely harsh and unsteady in his ears.

She smiles across at him and he shudders anew as her leather-covered calf brushes against his. “I would say so.” She sips her wine, the deep red shining on her lips. “Now, eat up, dear, before it gets cold.”

He barely even tastes the food. It’s probably quite lovely, but when one’s senses are overwhelmed, it can be rather difficult to focus and the scent of her perfume, the shine of her lip, the rub of her calf and the tap of her nail followed by a changing of the pulse…

His knife screeches on the plate when she changes the rhythm again.

“Spillages, lamb,” she sighs, shaking her head. “Oh dear.”

And true enough, there’s a single spot of sauce on the white of the table cloth from when he had conveyed a trembling forkful to his mouth. It’s deep red. Is the sauce red? He hadn’t even noticed and now, he can’t help staring as he almost doubles over, his world swimming. It takes every bit of his effort to lay down his knife and fork without any further damage. More still to wipe trembling fingers on the napkin. He– it’s– everything is sharp and bright and flavour and colour are bleeding away and it’s–

“M-may I have an apple, Nanny,” he gasps out.

At once, the world around them is still and quiet. Not a person moves, not a breath of air, and Crowley takes off her glasses.

“Course, angel,” she says gently. The thrum eases away, then stops and Aziraphale shudders from the pleasant relief of the respite. Crowley is around the table in a heartbeat, dragging her chair, and catches his face in her palm, kissing the corner of his mouth softly.

Aziraphale leans into her, shivering. “Sorry.”

The demon gathers him in her arms, scattering kisses across his face. “Nah,” she says, squeezing him warmly. “You know the rules. When it stops being fun, we stop.” She tilts her head to look down at him. “Home?”

Aziraphale shoots a longing look over at the cabinet of desserts and Crowley laughs against his curls.

“We can take it with us,” she says, smiling.

Aziraphale leans up, claiming a kiss. “You are a treasure,” he says, voice still a hoarse and tender thing.

“And I need to take you home and spoil you properly,” she murmurs. “Should’ve worked up to this, shouldn’t we?”

He can’t disagree. And it _was_ a pleasure, but he was simply too… aware of everything around him, of the rules, of the people, of the… everything. Playing in public is a pleasure, but playing and _obeying_ at the same time is a different kind of thing.

“Dearest,” he confides in a low voice, “you may need to… help me. My legs are a little unsteady.”

Crowley positively beams at him. “I _knew_ it was getting to you,” she says happily. She glances over at the cake display. “Right, angel. Which one do you want? Pick a couple, then we’ll head home.”

He picks and she snaps her fingers, and then her shoulder is under his arm and her other arm is under his legs and he’s scooped up as if he weighs no more than a feather. He leans into her at once, sagging with relief, as she carries him out into the deliciously cool night air.

“Your heart’s going like the clappers,” Crowley observes as time begins again and the hum and clatter of the restaurant drifts out behind them.

“Well… yes…” Aziraphale takes a deep breath of the fresh air. “It was… quite pleasant. The… the vibration of it all.”

Crowley grins as she sets him down on the passenger seat of the Bentley. “Shall I keep your motor running until we get home?”

He eyes her guardedly. “Only gently?”

She catches his hand, kisses his palm. “Low setting, keeping you warm for me until I get you back in the house?”

He nods and when it begins again, he sinks a little further down the seat, a contented sigh slipping from his lips. His eyes drift closed and he tilts his hips, enjoying the deep-seated purr as Crowley reverses the car out of the car park and back onto the road.

She isn’t speeding, he thinks as they rumble into the night, and it’s only when he feels hands on his buttons that he realises why and really has no will-power left to protest as scarlet nailed fingers slip between fabric and flesh and stroke gently at the apex of his sex. It’s like a static charge, his body already resonating and humming with unspent energy and he cries out sharply as she strokes and rubs at him, his hands clutching at the seat for another reason entirely.

“Oh!”

“That’s right, angel,” she murmurs and he slants a look at her. Her eyes are on the road, but her expression says all her attention is on him.

Her hand slips a little lower and the heavy hot press of the heel of her hand, grinding, rolling against him sets off fireworks behind his and he can’t help but clutch her wrist, holding her there, rubbing urgently against her, small, helpless, ragged, gasping breaths tripping from his lips.

“Good…” Crowley whispers, a soft litany which only makes matters better. “Look at you, angel… fuck me, you look amazing… and you feel so bloody hot, d’you know that… again… can you get another for me… come on, love…”

And Aziraphale is falling apart, boneless and weak and helpless, and even when he can’t move his hips anymore, she’s still moving her hands her fingers, drawing him through another pulsing, throbbing, aching wave of pleasure until he’s shuddering and quaking and mute under her touches.

It takes him some time to realise the car isn’t moving. Takes him some time to realise they’re home and he’s still clinging to her wrist and her fingers are smooth and slick against him, dripping and warm and he rolls his head to gaze at her, finds those golden eyes dark with affection, pinning him where he sits.

“You’re getting my seat wet,” she says with a smile. “Maybe we get this inside?”

He nods and she’s out of the car, round to his side in a heartbeat. Arms around ribs and legs, carrying him again, gentle as can be. Into the house, into the bedroom, onto the bed. He lies, limp as can be, as she strips him out of his rumpled, crumpled clothes and his sodden trousers. She wasn’t wrong. The moisture is clinging to his thighs, hot and wet and salt.

“Christ, angel,” she laughs, stroking his hip. “The state of you.”

He makes a face at her, then groans helplessly as she mercilessly draws the toy free. It drags against skin plush and aching and oversensitive, still buzzing gently. “That… you… your fault…”

“Yeah,” Crowley says happily, then crawls down between his legs and his world goes white as she sets to work licking him clean. He shouts, cries out her name, squirms, gasps, fingers in hair, pulling, twisting, and she laughs, lick-lick-licking, until he can’t think, breathe, speak, anything.

He’s splayed under her, shivering and gasping, and she crawls up his body, kissing his belly, his breastbone, his throat, his chin, his lips. Her tongue tastes of salt and wine and he’s drunk on her, his hands quivering in her hair.

“I love you,” he gasp-whispers. “I love you.”

She gathers him up in her arms, sitting them both back against the headboard. “I know,” she murmurs as she draws the blanket around his shoulders, “but I think you can manage a little more.”

He makes a weak sound of protest and she laughs and snaps her fingers.

A plate with his choice of cake appears on the bed beside her, glistening with cream and thick, dark chocolate ganache

“Oh…”

“See?” she teases, scooping up forkful. “You had a little more left to give.”

He makes a face at her, but it’s probably unconvincing. She smiles, and strokes her fingers through his hair, letting him snuggle closer as she feeds him the cake, one mouthful at a time. When it’s done, when he’s full and sated and warm and happier than he could ever have imagined, Crowley kisses his forehead.

“Happy Valentine’s day.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, smut-fiends :D


End file.
